


grey

by phoenixsky



Series: colours [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Gen, Harry is just so tired, Somewhat Hopeful Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, please, someone protect this boy, the 'comfort' part is debatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:04:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixsky/pseuds/phoenixsky
Summary: Harry was sleeping a lot. More hours every day, but he never seemed to wake up well rested. He slept ten, twelve hours, fifteen hours, spent more time asleep than awake.The Dursleys hadn’t bothered him for the last two weeks. Somehow, they were quiet as well, as if they could sense that Harry wasn’t quite all there.





	grey

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Obviously.
> 
> Harry is able to speak with Voldemort through their mental link. Why? How? Plot reasons. It's four am, don't judge me.

 

The last few days had been quiet. Everything was somehow… numb. His thoughts were slow, every word seemed to fight its way through deep water, taking so long that he forgot what he had been thinking about in the first place. The summer heat made the air heavy, and he found himself constantly tired.

Harry was sleeping a lot. More hours every day, but he never seemed to wake up well rested. He slept ten, twelve hours, fifteen hours, spent more time asleep than awake.

The Dursleys hadn’t bothered him for the last two weeks. Somehow, they were quiet as well, as if they could sense that Harry wasn’t quite all there. Petunia was cooking every meal, something she hadn’t done with Harry in the house since he had been four years old. He was getting food from them every day, a small plate with bread or fruits. Harry would have questioned the sudden generosity, but most days he felt too exhausted to even get out of bed. The hunger was a familiar ache, something which reminded him that he was awake and still breathing.

Sometimes, he forgot that he was still alive.

Everything was so slow except for that short moment when he was trying to fall asleep. Suddenly, the thoughts would start racing through Harry’s head and he would lay in bed, paralyzed by the realization that he was failing. He was failing everyone because he was too weak to even take a shower most days.

He had to get stronger.

He had to learn more magic.

He had to be good, had to be a role model, someone to look up to.

He had to be a hero.

He had to be a fighter.

He would have to be a killer.

 

He was not quite sixteen years old, and he had never had a place to call home. He had hoped to find a home in Hogwarts, but while it was an escape from the Dursleys, it also was a place of constant danger. It was a place where he would feel safe in one moment, and the very next day he would be surrounded by hate and distrust.

Sometimes he wanted to cry his throat raw because he wanted to be hugged so badly. He wanted someone to hold him and tell him that it would be okay. But they all expected him to be strong, to be the one who reassured everyone.

He just wanted his parents. He wanted Sirius. He wanted to be normal. A child.

He could see the death of his godfather in front of his eyes, even while wide awake. Nobody had talked with him about it. Nobody mourned with him, nobody was lying to him to tell him that it would be okay somehow.

He just wanted someone to lie to him.

The ceiling above his bed had a weird crack in it. Staring at it idly, Harry wondered if it had become bigger during the last few years. He imagined the crack to grow, to split the ceiling in half and grow even larger. He imagined the house he hated so much, his personal prison, to crumble down around him, burrowing him in stone and dust.

He dreamed of his own funeral and wondered how many people would turn up. How many people would mourn him and how many people would mourn Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived?

He turned his head slightly to look out of the window, the only movement he had been able to force himself to make during the last few hours. It was dark outside. He didn’t know if it was morning or evening or the middle of the night. He slipped in and out of his sleep.

His sleep was uninterrupted and deep. Apparently even Voldemort didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore.

Everyone kept their distance.

No letters, no visits.

A few weeks ago, he had been lying in this bed crying for hours. Not even his uncle’s screams and his cousin’s laughter had made the tears stop. He had cried himself to sleep and had woken up to violent sobs shaking his whole body.

He had no tears left and he hated himself for it.

He tried to get himself to move. He imagined getting up and writing a letter to his friends. He wrote the letter in his mind, fake phrases of happiness giving away to a desperate cry for help. He wanted to confess his own weakness. He wanted them to care and for them to come for him, to save him.

He told himself that it was an easy task, that he didn’t even have to leave his room. He made a plan in his head.

1\. Sit up  
2\. Put feet on the ground  
3\. Stand up  
4\. Go to the desk

No wait.

4\. Go to the trunk and get parchment and a quill  
5\. Go to the desk  
6\. Write the letter  
7.  
7.  
…. 7.

He wasn’t sure how to get the letter to his friends. Vernon had thrown Hedwig out some time ago, he didn't know for sure how long ago exactly. His uncle had gotten annoyed about her constant hooting and screeching. The poor owl had been frantic about the weird behaviour of her owner, but Harry hadn’t been able to reassure her without breaking out in tears.

It was better for her to be gone, to be free. She was probably with the Weasleys, they would take care of her better than Harry had ever been able to.

He had failed even her, the first friend he’s ever had.

Once more he discarded the plan to write a letter, to call out for help. It was too complicated, too exhausting to plan it all out. Thinking about taking even the first step and actually acting it out made him feel anxious. It was too much somehow. He was afraid that if he tried to sit up, he would realize that he wasn’t able to do it.

He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to be alive anymore.

Was that normal? Everyone was sad sometimes, right? But there were people struggling with so much larger problems. People who had nowhere to sleep and people who were abused by their own family and… and…

He was disgusted with himself sometimes, for struggling to much with his own problems. How was he supposed to save the Wizarding World when he couldn’t even get himself to eat?

 

Harry tried to remember the moment he had realized that he would never have control over his life. Every single step he took was decided by someone else.

Do your chores.

Do not ask questions.

Do not touch us.

Do not talk about your parents.

Do not question the teachers.

Go to Hogwarts.

Save your friends.

Love Gryffindor, hate Slytherin.

Be brave.

Be humble.

Love your fame.

Do not love your fame.

Save us, Harry.

Stop behaving like a child and save the world, Harry.

Do not ask questions, Harry.

Do not try to help, Harry.

Get yourself together and be our saviour.

Stop lying.

Why do you want so much attention, Harry?

Keep quiet and let the adults talk.

How dare you be hurt by our opinions.

We owe you nothing.

You owe us everything.

Go and sacrifice yourself, Harry. Go and die for us.

 

Harry wondered what it felt like to truly know that someone liked you. That someone enjoyed your company and wanted nothing else from you than simply your presence. People always wanted something. They wanted him to act a certain way, think a certain way.

He knew that they would turn away from him the second he made a mistake. He simply knew it. He had to keep his masks firmly in place. Sometimes he wore so many of them at the same time that he couldn’t even feel his real face anymore.

He had never been his own person and to be honest, he didn’t truly know who he really was.

What would change without him? The people would find another hero, a better saviour. Someone stronger, more powerful, someone who could still see colours. Someone worthy.

Harry just wanted to sleep. He was so, so tired.

 

Lying there, his lips dry and his stomach clenching painfully, Harry knew that he would never wake up again if he went to sleep now. Somehow, he just knew that his mind was tired of fighting this, of fighting for a life that had nothing in it worth fighting for. He was dying, too exhausted to fight for another day.

He had never felt as lonely as in this very moment, knowing that he would die alone. It felt wrong somehow, to not tell anyone that he was about to die. Something deep inside his mind was screaming at him, begging him to get up and drink something, _do something_ , to keep living.

He tried to say something, to have something to hold onto. But his eyelids were dropping, and it was too late.

Somehow, it was okay.

But somehow, he wasn’t willing to do this alone.

Dying was terrifying, Harry realized. No matter how much he had thought about this before, right now, it was terrifying.

He wanted someone to tell him that it would be okay, that he would find peace in death. But there was no one –

 

Harry almost felt like laughing, a peculiar sensation considering he was moments away from death.

There was someone he could reach out to. Coincidentally, it was a person who would be overjoyed by the news of his death.

At least one of them would feel happiness for once. Harry just wanted to feel peace.

He forced his eyes open, too afraid of falling asleep to soon. His mind was open for everyone to see, but only one person would bother to look.

_Voldemort?_

The few seconds his call seemed to be lost in a dark nothingness were maybe the most frightening part of this whole ‘dying experience’. But then, Harry felt a rough tugging in his mind, and his call was answered.

 _Potter?_ The 'what the hell?' could almost be heard just as clearly.

_Sorry. I didn’t want to do this alone._

_Alone? Potter, your mind feels even weirder than usual._

_Does it? Is it grey?_

_What– Potter, I will kill you as soon as I–_

_Not necessary anymore._ Harry settled into the thin mattress a bit more comfortably. He took a deep breath. The air felt cold although it was the middle of summer.

_I’m already dying._

_… Well, that’s convenient. I’m overjoyed, naturally._ Voldemort sounded suspicious, as if he tried to figure out Harry’s plan behind this sudden mental conversation.

_You are welcome._

_Potter. Are you… Surely you aren’t committing suicide._

_I’m not sure if you can consider it suicide._ Harry could feel his thoughts slowing down. Long sentences were becoming more difficult.

_I’m just stopping living._

_Well,_ Voldemort drawled hesitantly. _Go on then. I certainly won’t miss you._

 _No._ Harry closed his eyes. _I like that._

_You like that I won’t miss you?_

_Honest. You… that’s the truth. You won’t miss me. Everyone else lies._

_People lie Potter, they all do._

_Yes._

Harry took a few slow breathes. Voldemort kept quiet, but Harry could still feel him in the back of his mind.

 

And then, suddenly, Harry panicked. His fingers cramped around the thin blanket and his breathing became erratic. He imagined fading away, being alone in a dark eternal emptiness, and horror gripped him tightly.

_Voldemort?_

_Yes?_

_I… don’t think I want to die anymore._

_Too late now, isn't it?_

_I… I don’t want to be alive. Or… I don’t want to live my life anymore. But I don’t want to die either._

Voldemort sighed. _Potter, you make no sense. Excuse me for a second while I get my answers directly from the source._

Harry didn’t get the chance to answer. Voldemort ripped into his mind, into his memories. Pictures flashed in front of his eyes and his heart was beating frantically. His mind seemed to clear slightly as adrenalin pumped though his body. Gasping out loud as pain shot through his mind like lightening, Harry lifted his arms and pressed his fingers against his closed eyes.

He wanted it to stop, but at the same time he felt more alive than he had in weeks.

_Potter._

_Yes?_

_Considering you are said to be the only one who can kill me, I reserve the pleasure of your death for myself. Therefore, I forbid you to die right now._

_Okay._ Harry agreed. It made sense, really. Voldemort had always wanted to be the one to kill him. It was personal, this thing between them.

_I’m not sure if I can stop dying though._

_Your mind is already clearer. Keep that up. And get someone to help you._

_There’s no one here._

_Don’t play dumb, Potter, I know you live with your family. They can't hate you_  that  _much._

_No family. They won’t help me._

_… What about Dumbledore’s Order?_

_There’s no one here._

_Potter._ Somehow, Voldemort managed to convey both disbelief and exasperation simply by saying his name.

_Harry._

_What?_

_I want you to call me Harry. That’s who I want to be. Just Harry. Not Harry Potter.  
_

There was a short moment of silence, then Voldemort spoke up again. Harry managed to blink once. Somehow, the fact that he was still able to open his eyes made him happier than he had felt since Sirius’ death.

_… Harry. I have an offer for you._

_Yes?_

_Tell me where you are and I will get you._

_And after you get here? What will happen then?_

_Does it really matter?_

Harry opened his eyes slowly, his fingers screaming in pain where they were once again curled tightly around the blanket. He stared at the crack in his ceiling.

_I guess it doesn’t._

_Where are you?_ Voldemort sounded strangely patient.

_Surrey. Little Whinging. Privet Drive 4. Didn’t you see it in my mind?_

_I need you to invite me in to get through the wards._

_Ah._ Harry nodded although there was no one there to see it. _Thank you for answering my question. I invite you in, I guess._

There was no answer, and for a moment Harry panicked. He couldn’t feel Voldemort in his mind anymore, and while he didn’t really want to die anymore, he had no energy to shout out for help. For a moment, he was alone again, and the sudden surge of fear froze his heart.

 

A sharp crack echoed though his small room, and Harry turned his head slowly to see Voldemort stand next to the door. It felt so unreal to see him here, to know that Harry had invited him, and he couldn’t help but giggle quietly.

Voldemort twirled his wand lazily, staring at Harry. “That’s not the reaction I normally get.” he said casually.

 _Sorry_ , Harry answered mentally. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken out loud, and he didn’t trust his voice to work.

With a few long steps Voldemort was next to his bed. Harry waited for his enemy to raise his wand and bathe him in green light. He didn’t want to die anymore, but he guessed if he had to die anyway, the Killing Curse was a quite merciful death. And he wouldn’t be alone. His death would mean something.

“I won’t kill you right now.” Voldemort said. “As much as it hurts me to admit it, but I respect you too much as my opponent to kill you when you are already on your deathbed.”

Harry watched him carefully. It was in a somewhat detached manner that he wondered what would happen to him instead.

“I will take you to my Manor.” the Dark Lord informed him. “You will gain back some strength – that’s an order – and then we may duel until one of us is killed by the other.”

_What if I don’t want to kill you?_

Voldemort smirked, leaning down slowly. “We will talk about different possibilities when you are actually able to follow our conversation.”

Harry was surprised to feel cold hands and strong arms gather him against an equally strong chest as Voldemort lifted him from his bed as if he weighted nothing. Granted, Harry did not remember the last time he had eaten something, and he had become worryingly thin.

He didn’t fight the physical contact with his enemy. He just enjoyed the sensation of another human holding him.

Maybe he should have been disgusted.

Maybe he himself was disgusting for enjoying this.

He didn’t care anymore.

Harry didn’t know what would happen when they arrived in Voldemort’s Manor. Maybe he would be killed instantly, maybe the Dark Lord would keep his word. Maybe he would be tortured, maybe he would be nursed back to health.

It was out of his hands now, and Harry wasn’t able to change it anymore.

Maybe he would be alive this time tomorrow. Maybe not. The only important fact was that he had taken the step to change his life. His life as Harry Potter, hated and loved hero of the Wizarding World was over, and in some sense, he had already died weeks ago, maybe years ago.

He gripped the black robes of Voldemort tightly as the older man prepared himself for the apparition.

He was ready to start his second life. And if it ended in the next few minutes or days, then at least it was because of his own decisions.

At least he wouldn’t be alone.

 

 

A sharp crack cut through the air, and Voldemort and the boy formerly known as Harry Potter disappeared, leaving behind nothing but the silent heat of the morning hours.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write a sequel, but right now, I just had to get this out of my mind.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \--------
> 
> Please, please, please, if you ever feel remotely like there's nothing worth waking up for anymore, reach out to someone. It can be a family member, a friend, or a stranger on a suicide hotline. You might be drowning right now, but I promise you, there are people out there willing to save you every day until you remember how to swim on your own.


End file.
